


For Want Of A Glove

by AuditoryCheesecake



Series: A Cheesecake's Tumblr Shorts [13]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Arguments, By Which I Mean Tevinter Is Terrible, Cultural Differences, Gift Giving, M/M, Misunderstandings, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7519064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cold makes Dorian's wrists ache, and Bull decides to help. He does succeed in the end, with only one catastrophic misunderstanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Want Of A Glove

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anonymous prompt: "All that talk about Dorian being a hothouse flower, but he suffers with the cold even more than he's willing to admit. Bull might make jokes but he can only watch Dorian struggle for so long."
> 
> We'd call Dorian's condition rheumatoid arthritis. They don't have any Greek-like languages in Thedas though, so they'd probably call it something entirely different. For the purposes of this fic, he started experiencing symptoms in his fingers and most acutely in his wrists around age 19 or 20. I've based the timing and symptoms off the experiences of a close college friend.

The Emprise is cold. Unnaturally cold, the river frozen solid, green leaves withering under a coat of ice. Dorian griped most of the first day, but he’s gotten quieter. The Bull noticed, just like he noticed Sera’s sunburn in the Exalted Plains, and the Boss’s coughing in the Mire, but this isn’t so easy to solve.

Elfroot paste for Sera, some of the concoction Stitches pulled together for Grim’s sneezing for the Boss, things he already had in his pack just in case. And they’re both a little less prickly than Dorian. The Boss had drank the potion without questioning (he’ll have to train her out of _that_ habit) and Sera had tried his offering “just once” and then stolen the paste from his bag when she thought he wasn’t looking.

Bull keeps an eye on Dorian, on how he shakes out his wrists after a fight, blows on his fingers with a breath that steams in the frigid air, tucks his hands under his arms whenever they stand still for the Boss to chip away at some mineral formation or gather plants.

It’s worse at nights. Dorian huddles close to the fire– too close, he singed the edge of his robe earlier– and stares morosely into the flames, rubbing gingerly at his fingers and wrists with hands that glow eerily green.

This thing between them is still new. Bull’s still feeling out the edges, still figuring out if all the jagged spots are where he expects them to be. But he still sits down next to Dorian and watches the magic flicker across his skin.

Dorian eyes him warily. “I hope you haven’t any objections to me using magic,” he says. It’s not quite snappish, a little too tired for that.

“Looks useful, actually.” Bull pulls out one of his daggers and his whetstone, lets that noise fill the space between them instead of the not-quite-sound of Dorian’s magic. It’s there in the back of his mind, but focusing on something else will help him get used to it. Resistance training, he thinks. He keeps watching.

“ _What_ ,” Dorian finally snaps.

“The cold makes your wrists worse?”

“I'm fine.” Dorian’s eyes flicker, defensive. He doesn’t like admitting weakness. He sighs. “I can hold my staff, that’s what matters.”

“Not all that matters.”

“I won’t be holding _your_ staff any time soon, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He shivers dramatically. “It’s far too cold for that sort of nonsense.”

“You’ve got a tell,” Bull says, nodding when Dorian mutters his offence. “You get all quiet when there’s crap that’s really bothering you.”

Dorian scowls some more. “That’s hardly sporting, using something you learned in a private moment to mother me in the field.” The lack of denial means that Bull’s patience is paying off.

“Tell me how I can help,” he says, instead of engaging the petty argument Dorian’s angling for. 

Dorian is silent for some time, hands ghosting green and rubbing slowly at the knuckles of his thumbs. “There’s not much that does help,” he finally admits, as testy as if Bull had been needling him for hours. “So there’s little point in dwelling on it.”

“You ever consider getting gloves?”

Dorian’s shoulders shift. “Only every day. It’s very difficult to find something warm, stylish and flexible enough to to allow spellwork. None of the merchants who’ve come to Skyhold have anything suitable, not within my means, at least. It’s odd. You’ve think they’d do a roaring trade in gloves here in the south.”

Dorian stretches one arm out in front of him, over the fire. The orange flames mingle strangely with his magic. “In a perfect world, I’d have gloves with support in the wrists and plenty of give in the fingers. Of course, in a perfect world, I’d not be in this awful cold, and I wouldn’t be so affected by it.”

“Your wrists,” Bull confirms, and this time he gets a straight answer instead of avoidance or denial.

Dorian nods. His spine has softened again. “It’s an affliction that runs in my mother’s family, much as it pains them to admit their imperfection. Though I exhibited symptoms younger than most.” He chuckles ruefully. “Much younger. My joints began to swell the same year my grandfather started to complain.”

“It a magic thing?”

“No, merely a genetic fluke, as far as we can tell. The pain is caused by the buildup of fluid in the joints. Some are affected most by humidity. I, apparently, suffer the worst in the lower temperatures.” Another swipe of his thumb over the inside of his wrist. “Gives a new meaning to _bone-chilling_.”

“Does repeated motion make it worse?” Bull mimes his meaning, and Dorian laughs. A real laugh, and Bull’s glad to hear it. They fall back into silence as Dorian shakes his head.

* * *

They only spend a week in the Emprise before heading back to Skyhold for provisions and for the Boss to check in with her advisers. Dorian is nearly cheerful as they start the final ascent towards the castle, and hurries away to the bathhouse as soon as he’s dismounted and seen his horse into the care of a stablehand. He won’t emerge for hours unless prompted.

Bull spends his free time planning. Between the Chargers, his reports, and carrying things for Josephine’s next soiree, there’s not much of it. But he makes the time to track down the right merchants and craftsmen, and heckles Morris for weeks, until the quartermaster throws the gloves at him as soon as they arrive.

They’re dark leather, lined with halla fur, and they’re supple and soft to the touch. Bull conferred with the glove maker for an hour before they figured out a way to make the wrists adjustable– they can be wrapped tighter and the stiffer fabric there will hold the wrist inside tightly.

They were expensive, sure, but he’s got his own coin saved from Chargers’ jobs, and the Inquisition’s been covering room and board. He doesn’t mind spending a bit of money on a gift, and it’ll be worth every copper to see the look on Dorian’s face.

* * *

Dorian’s lying on Bull’s bed, pretending to read one of Varric’s books, doing his best to look both nonchalant and seductive. He does pretty well. Bull likes that he’s comfortable coming here in the day now. He likes the way Dorian drops the book and smiles at him when he opens the door.

“Our Lady Inquisitor has asked that I accompany her back the Emprise in a few days,” he says as Bull sits next to him and unhooks his brace to pull of his boots. The gloves are in his pocket, on the side further from Dorian. “I thought I should make use of the charms of relative civilization while I can.”

“Aw, you think I’m charming.” Bull tweaks Dorian’s nose and grins at his offended squawking.

“You don’t need an excuse to be here, you know,” he says as Dorian straightens his mustache. “I’m always happy to see you.”

Dorian’s hands pause, and for a moment he looks extremely vulnerable. “As you should be,” he sniffs after a little too long. “So perhaps you should endeavor to prove it.”

He’s getting better at asking for what he needs, so Bull rewards him with a kiss. He’s warm, and smiles into it when Bull wraps an arm around him, pulling him partially onto his lap. Despite his words, Dorian’s not impatient, and Bull thinks he might be happy to stay here in this place for a long time.

“Just a minute,” he finally makes himself say, because he did have a plan. He pulls the gloves out of his pocket and hands them to Dorian, suddenly wondering if he should have hunted down some ribbon as well. 

Dorian takes them and turns them over, brow furrowed. He strokes the soft leather with a finger and feels the halla fur inside. He investigates the wrists, flexes the stiff material between his hands. He looks up at Bull with a hesitant frown. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“They’re a gift,” Bull says. “I tried to make sure they were like what you said you wanted–”

“I wasn’t fishing for… favors, or, or charity, Bull.” He looks upset, and Bull has no idea where he went wrong. “I never had gloves like these made because I can’t afford them. I can’t pay you back–”

“No, they’re a gift! I don’t want money–”

Dorian’s eyes flash, his face tightens. “Well, I’m not going to pay in another way.”

“That’s not what–”

Dorian pushes himself off of Bull, takes a few guarding steps back and hold the gloves out between them, like he thinks they’ll catch fire. “I’m not fucking you in exchange for gifts, Bull.” His voice is fragile and flinty. “I’m not looking for a patron.”

“I didn’t say you were!” Bull raises his hands in a placating gesture.

Dorian shakes the gloves at him. “I am not interested in this sort of _arrangement_ , you do not need to buy my affection,” he hisses the words, eyes bright with anger. “I don’t know what I did to make you think that I was unhappy with– that you would need to–”

“I don’t!”

“I thought that you…” he flounders, and the expression on his face make Bull’s heart clench. Dorian deflates, and opens his clenched fist in a gesture of defeat. “I thought we were equals. I thought this was _real_.” It looks like it hurts him to admit.

Bull stands, because he feels helpless sitting down, and it’s a punch in the gut when Dorian takes a startled step back. He holds himself still, tries not to make any more threatening movements.

“It is,” he says desperately, because it’s true. He can’t stand the thought of Dorian leaving. “I was trying to do something nice for you. I get presents for my guys all the time.”

“You’re their Captain. They work for you, it’s your _duty_ to provide for them.”

“They’re my friends. I like doing nice things for them. They do nice things for me too.”

“I can’t repay you,” Dorian insists again.

“I’m not looking for payment. I wanted you to have something to help your wrists. All I was trying to get from you was a smile.”

“Right.” Dorian’s sarcasm only gets sharper when he’s angry. “You care about me so much that you’ll spend money on something with no benefit to you, just because you think it’ll make me _smile_.”

“Yes?”

Dorian looks anguished. “I shouldn’t have left Varric’s romantic trash in here, it just gives you ideas.”

“I didn’t get it from a book.” Dorian’s still holding the gloves between them like a shield, but his arm drops an inch. Bull catches his hand, holding tighter when Dorian doesn’t pull away. “You were hurting. I wanted to help.”

“Just to help,” he repeats.

“Yes.” Bull’s heart is hammering.

Dorian stares at their hands and shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I am an abominable ass,” he declares.

“Hey, I think your ass is great!” Dorian turns an expression of pained exasperation on him, and Bull tries to look contrite. “I should have thought about how it might look to you.”

“I’m not used to gifts that come without… expectations,” Dorian admits.

“All I’m expecting is that you’ll wear them.”

“I don’t know if your jokes are making me feel better or worse.” He’s still frowning, but less fiercely. Bull takes a step toward him, and Dorian mirrors him, so that they’re standing chest to chest. He looks up at Bull. “I nearly threw them at your face.”

“I mean, you thought I was trying to–” he cant help the way his face twists. “I wouldn’t, you know. I’m not trying to pay you for anything.”

“I know.” Dorian rests his forehead against Bull’s chest and breathes deeply. “This isn’t Tevinter. And you’re not like anyone I knew there.”

Bull raises the hand he’s still holding to his lips and brushes a kiss across Dorian’s knuckles. The gloves are still clenched tightly in his fingers. “Do you like them?” he asks after they stand in quiet for a long time.

“They’re perfect,” Dorian murmurs, finally beginning to relax into the arm Bull has wrapped around him. “Ridiculously so.”


End file.
